


The Girl with IBD

by orphan_account



Category: The Fault in Our Stars - John Green
Genre: Chronic Illness, F/M, IBD-AU, colitis, ibd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:19:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All most of us want in life is to be happy and healthy.  For 16 year old Zoe, that dream becomes dashed when she finds out that she has IBD.  Now, she must navigate her new life with a chronic illness.</p>
<p>This starts out as a fictional story about a girl, but then it moves into a TFiOS fanfiction where Hazel is the girl and Gus is a boy she meets at a DR's office.  More to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sick Girl

"You're sick."

That's what the doctor told me as he read me my charts.

"It's ulcerative colitis, an incurable disease of the bowels. You will be living with it for the rest of your life."

"BULLSHIT! THIS HAS TO BE BULLSHIT! IT CAN'T BE REAL!" I sobbed. It wasn't real. In that moment, nothing was real because the entire world had imploded around me.

"I'm sorry. You will be put on antibiotics, and we will try a medication to soothe the symptoms." He stated.

I hated him, I utterly hated him. What the fuck is an antibiotic?

"You said... soothe the symptoms," my dad interjected through my sobs. "We don't want to soothe, we want a cure. What are the avenues to get my daughter back to where she should be?"

"Sir, the only thing we can do is put her on medication and hope for the best. This disease is relatively new, about 100 years, and we don't know much about how to help. The only thing you can do at this point is to take medication and follow the steps to try and keep her pain-free."

After that, I don't remember much. I think I passed out in blind fury. All I remember is driving back home to Minneapolis. We sat in silence, not even the radio filling space between us. My mom was using up all of our phone data trying to figure out what ulcerative colitis was, and every once in awhile I could hear her put her hand up to her mouth or shake. I think that she had taken it worse than I had, which would be saying quite a lot.

Once we got home, my little sister, Mandy, jumped up and down. Her utter oblivion to real life was relaxing. Mom told me that I should shower up, and that when I was done, she will have picked up the medication. As I tromped up to my room, I could hear my parents murmuring to Mandy about how she would need to be fragile around me for the next couple of weeks. Mandy didn't respond, and I think that's because her five year old brain couldn't comprehend why I would need a break from spending time with her.

When I got up to my room, I shut myself inside of it's bubblegum pink serenity. I wanted to stay there forever, where I was safe. Where I would know that I am okay. Because, in that moment, I was not okay. I had read about suicide and cutting and all of these things about pain management on the internet, but I didn't do that because I knew that therapy with some geek who didn't know the difference between Charmin and single-ply.

I was about to pick up my computer when IT happened. I ran to my bathroom, slammed the door, and threw the toilet cover open. Off came my pants, and out came the shit. It was painful, like usual, and I gasped as I rubbed the toilet paper against my butt. It felt like the fire of 1,000 suns had all come down and decided that a good resting spot was my anus. Thanks, dudes.

When I got up to wash my hands 20 minutes later, I saw my reflection. My brown hair was short and choppy. My blue eyes had purple rings around them from a lacking of sleep, and my lips seemed dead and small. All of the tan had left my skin, so I looked pretty albino, and my dark blue TARDIS sweater made me look like an Oreo. My shirt that had once been tight and flattering now fell in all of the wrong places, and my collarbones looked like they could function as scissors. I was not looking healthy, I realized.

My name is Hazel. That was the most important thing to remember in that moment. I am Hazel Grace Lancaster, and I do not back down. I will not back down.

When my mom came back from the store and found me lying in bed with the comforter pulled up over my head, all she did was sigh and tell me to take one of the Predinsones. I didn't even resist, as I was quite sleepy, so I took a pill and popped it into my mouth. Dry-swallowing pills had been my new talent, and not one that I found to be disposable. Mom gave me the small "I'm sorry your life sucks" smile, and she closed my door to retire to her room. It was almost 10:00 when that happen, so I supposed that I should be doing the same.

 

I was up for the next four hours eating bread and laughing obnoxiously at "South Park".

 

Apparently, Prednisone can keep you up all night. Damn, I wish I had known that then.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, after I had stopped acting like a squirrel on drugs, my mom came into my room. Her hair was sweat-coated as she had just finished gardening, and there was dirt on her forehead. She sat down on my bed, and gave me one of those no-nonsense kind of looks.

"Hazel, what are you up to?" her voice sounded firm and stern. Awesome.

"Nothing, Mom," I groaned, hoping that the good-graces of God would protect me from what I thought was about to come.

"I think it's time to go to your appointment."

"Mother, I really don't feel that it is necessary to preform a psyche analysis on my brain. Besides my constant and incurable bowel needs, I am completely capable of functioning as a normal human being."

After that, she just stared at me for a moment. I wasn't sure whether she was being pensive, irritated, or having a stroke, but I decided to shut up in case of the first two. Her eyes had gone from sky-blue to steel in under a second, so I was pretty sure that it was irritation.

"Hazel Grace Lancaster, did I ask for your permission? I'm sorry, honey, but your father and I just want to make sure that you're not going to jump off of a building or do something crazy!" she nearly cried. Sometimes, I wonder where she gets her insane ideas about teenagers. Personally, I think copious amounts of Dr. Phil are to blame.

"Mom, as you can see, I'm not running around with street gangs or getting piercings all over my body. I just want to be al..."

Just as I was about to go on a full rampage about the adult patriarchy, my stomach did an all-too-familiar leap. My hands clutched my stomach, and my eyes widened to the size of basketballs. I jumped off of the bed, ran to the toilet, and still lost the battle. I could feel the diarrhea coating my underwear as I tried to move faster. Per usual, though, I was too late.

I sighed as I finished my bowel movement, only about 1/8 of it actually going into the toilet. The rest was either on the floor or in my now-brown underwear.

"MOOOM" I yelled with the door still shut. I knew that if I walked around the house with my pants between my legs, the neighbors would see. Reality sucks.

"Do you need a change of clothes?" she called back, and I could hear the worry and angst in her voice.

"What I could use is less diarrhea and an adult diaper, but I suppose a change would suffice," I called back. Sometimes, I pick the best times to let my sarcasm fly. Someone told me once that it's a defense mechanism, which is total bullshit. I think I just really like to keep people on their toes, especially when the Mushy Gushies would come.

Mushy Gushies are the worst part about being "sick". People get shy and awkward and they don't know what to do. Instead of acting like real human beings, they just coddle you and tell you that it's okay when it's not. Parents are no exception, I don't think anyone is. That, in fact, is why I was so against going to the shrink. He'll just tell me that depression is a side-effect of ulcerative colitis, give me some pills, and send me on my way. Even better, he'll put my data in a study to compare with thousands of other kids going through the same thing. They'll get the numbers on IBD and depression, and then they'll know how to treat it.

That's why I hate shrinks, I hate Mushy Gushies, and I hate studies. I am not just another number.

I could hear my mom rummaging through my drawers and picking out some new pants and underwear. In fact, I could tell it was jeans by the way they hit the dresser. She knocked on the door, and placed them on the ground. I felt much better in cleaner clothes, and as I slugged back to my room, I almost forgot the problem at hand.

"Hazel, come on, we're going," my mom called from the kitchen.

"Mother, it's really not necessary..." I began, but she cut me off.

"You, in the car, three minutes. If I hear one more word about it, I'm taking away your laptop. Let's go."

Jeeze, fine. I pulled on my Sherlock-themed converse, my signature TARDIS hoodie, and I headed out the door. After I clambered in the car, I looked over at my mom. Her eyes, though they were not happy, were grateful.

"Thank you, sweetheart. It means a lot to me."

They say that the only thing worse than being a sick kid is realizing that it's your genes that gave the kid the illness. I supposed that my mom just wanted me to be happy and not impaired. Who can blame her for that?


End file.
